Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

Okay, somehow I survived Byron. But I’m not so sure I can make it through this. It’s like there’s an anvil on my head. “Are you lying to me right now? Tell me you’re lying.”

A sigh. “Look, you went there like every day. But I can’t go there even once?”

“No,” I say flatly. I want to stomp around, but that would hurt a lot. More than that, I want to wrap her in a bubble, one where creepy dudes will never stare or paw at her.

“They were actually really nice.”

This only makes me more suspicious. “Who was nice?”

“Everyone! I met Lola and Candy. They were cool once they found out I was your sister. At first they were worried about Ivan seeing me, but he said I could stay as long as I needed to.”

So this is what an aneurysm feels like. Okay then. “He’s a mobster, Clara. Like Dad.”

She turns pensive. “Maybe that’s why I felt comfortable with him. Maybe growing up like we did has made us twisted or something, like dangerous guys feel safe.”

I stare at her in shock. How did she know? It had taken me forever to figure that out. And by then it was too late. I was already head over heels for a dangerous man. Already in love with his boots and his scruff and the stories he tells.

There’s something around her neck. I recognize it—but not on her.

“What’s that?” I ask.

She looks down, a faint smile on her lips. Her fingers grasp the marble cross I’d seen Kip wear. “He said it’s for me. Something my father—my real father—left behind when he… He said I could have it.”

My heart melts at the wonder in her voice. Of course she’d known she wasn’t my father’s daughter. And Kip must have told her the whole story. Or at least the PG-13 version. I’m glad Clara can have that sense of family now, even if it’s laced with betrayal and pain. At least now she knows where she came from.

I put my hand on hers. “I’m glad.” Something pricks at me. I have faint memories from the hospital and from coming home. I must have been awake enough to talk to Clara before, but the drugs make it all seem hazy now. And something is bothering me. “How did you know to trust Kip?”

“I didn’t.” She gives me a rueful smile. “I gave him hell, especially when I found out he was Byron’s brother.”

That’s my girl. “What changed your mind?”

“Well, he saved your life. Once the cops had questioned us about a hundred times, that much was clear. Even then he was demanding to see you and I was saying no. I wanted you to be fully awake and healed so you could decide for yourself if you wanted to see him.

I raise my eyebrow, a little nervous by the way she won’t meet my eyes. “Something must have happened, because I have vague memories of him in my hospital room.

Her pale cheeks turn bright pink. “You kept calling for him.”

“Oh.” Now I think I’m blushing too, imagining crying out for him. Shouldn’t I be angry at him? He lied to me. He tricked me. He also saved my life. And maybe, like Clara said, growing up like I did made me twisted or something. Maybe dangerous guys make me feel safe.

Chapter Nineteen

Over the next week I heal. And spend time with Clara. And read the book of Rudyard Kipling stories I had my sister steal from downstairs and bring to me. I even grieve for my father. He may have been twisted, but he tried to help me in the end. I believed he would have if Byron hadn’t turned on him. I had the real father I’d been longing for—but only for a few seconds. That’s who I mourn.

I do a lot in that week, but I don’t talk much with Kip.

Or rather, he doesn’t talk much to me.

I get one visit a day, and even that feels compulsory. His eyes are always shadowed, like he hasn’t been sleeping. He asks me, stiffly, if there’s anything

I need. Like he’s some kind of formal host and I’m a guest. And not his lover. Not the sister of his sister.

I don’t know if we can be close again, if I can trust him again. I’m not even sure what trust is. It’s all a dark miasma of lies, a twisted knot in my stomach. My mother’s death. My strange sisterly relationship with Kip and with Byron. Maybe it shouldn’t matter to me if we’re not blood related, but if I’d known that I never would have touched Kip—not for any amount of money. And now I’ve touched him everywhere. He’s touched me back. Too late.

I consider leaving the house. I’m not even sure where I’d go. Maybe it would be a relief to Kip to have me gone. Maybe he’s only keeping me here out of guilt for what happened.

Or because of Clara.

What if he’s disgusted by the way he saw me on that bed, naked and beaten? What if he only spent time with me because I was a stripper, because I was easy, and now that I’m lying in bed, I’m no use to him?